


watch them grow with the flowers in spring [ryden]

by softcerise



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: M/M, Ryden, a whole ton of fluff, trans boy!ryan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-07
Updated: 2016-09-07
Packaged: 2018-08-13 14:28:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7980022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softcerise/pseuds/softcerise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan is dressed in skinny jeans and Converse, and a thick, pale green coat patterned in leaves is zipped up to his collarbones. His straight brown fringe sweeps shyly over his brow and almost covers one amber eye, and his lips remain in a loose smile, not entirely genuine but still polite, even if the pair of arms wrapped tightly around his abdomen and his stance, hesitant with his weight on his heels so that he leans back only slightly, is anything but. Brendon knows that he’s the new neighbor, he had been told, <i>‘a man with a son your age’</i>, and he reciprocates with a blinding white grin and says, “it’s nice to meet you, Ryan Ross.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	watch them grow with the flowers in spring [ryden]

**Author's Note:**

> i've been planning this epic ryden alphabet au challenge for ages but i'm lazy and bad, so all i've written so far is the G, which is this one. anyway i wanted to post it before i end up scrapping the whole thing. and i've been sort of trying something different and did it work out? idk i hope so but anyway. here we go! feat. trans boy!ryan (if i write anything incorrectly/offensively about the topic please correct me!)
> 
> a garden au.

“What’s your name?” 

“Ryan Ross.” 

Ryan is dressed in skinny jeans and Converse, and a thick, pale green coat patterned in leaves is zipped up to his collarbones. His straight brown fringe sweeps shyly over his brow and almost covers one amber eye, and his lips remain in a loose smile, not entirely genuine but still polite, even if the pair of arms wrapped tightly around his abdomen and his stance, hesitant with his weight on his heels so that he leans back only slightly, is anything but. Brendon knows that he’s the new neighbor, he had been told, _‘a man with a son your age’_ , and he reciprocates with a blinding white grin and says, “it’s nice to meet you, Ryan Ross.” 

\--- 

Ryan doesn’t talk a lot. Ryan doesn’t do a lot of things, Brendon notices. Ryan doesn’t laugh, doesn’t yell, doesn’t really smile beyond the faint, respectful tilt of lips that Brendon has become accustomed to in the weeks he has spent with Ryan after he had moved into his neighborhood. Ryan in general isn’t noticeably happy, Brendon thinks. One day he brings it up, as Brendon walks Ryan home (Ryan didn’t really ask. Brendon saw him trudging along the sidewalk, wrapped in green and white scarves with tasseled ends that swayed in the chilly January wind, and decided to join him). Ryan kind of stops and looks at him, standard smile at the ready (Brendon likes to think that it was a little wider that day) and tells Brendon that people show happiness in different ways. 

Brendon doesn’t really know what to make of that. He thinks, Ryan doesn’t laugh or yell or truly smile, and that’s it.

That’s okay. Brendon has enough enthusiasm and feeling for both of them. He tells Ryan that too, and Ryan just. Kind of snorts, says, “okay,” and lets Brendon walk him home.

Brendon will take it.

\---

 “Someday, Ryan Ross, we’ll go to your room.”

Ryan’s been here for a month. In that entire month, Brendon’s never been inside Ryan’s house-- Ryan always seems to draw forward as soon as they get near the front steps, turn and say, “bye, thanks for the walk” and disappear inside before Brendon can say much in the form of a question or a protest. That’s another thing Ryan doesn’t do-- he doesn’t say, “see you later, Brendon”, doesn’t ask if Brendon maybe wants to come in. On the outside, Ryan’s house is pretty average-- white walls, white fence, tiled roof, and a completely barren front yard, frozen from the winter (although the past owners of the house hadn’t cared much for it either).

“I don’t like my room much. It’s still pretty empty.” Ryan responds, and kicks his feet a little. Brendon leans back on the bench and nods; he can understand that.

“My room then,” he decides. “Do you like movies?”

Ryan nods and twists his fingers. “We don’t have to, though. I don’t. I don’t want to intrude.”

“You don’t intrude, Ryan Ross. You don’t go to the same school as me; we have to spend time together somehow.”

Brendon glances at him out of the corner of his eye, just in time to see Ryan’s head turn abruptly the other way. His cheeks are a little bit pink. The cold, probably.

“I. Okay.”

\---

Brendon wouldn’t know how to describe Ryan to his other friends, and so he doesn’t.

Personality-wise, Brendon knows that Ryan’s a little bit shy, a little bit drawn-off. He knows that Ryan wears the same coat every day, the one covered in leaves of various types, sizes, and hues, and that must be because he really likes that coat, obviously, of course. He knows that Ryan lives with his father, who’s out a lot during the day and during the night too, but Ryan doesn’t mind.

Appearance-wise, Ryan is-- still drawn-off, with his hunched shoulders and hands hidden partly by his sleeves (“Sweaterpaws, Ryan Ross!”). His hair looks really soft and occasionally sticks up in little tufts, which Brendon wants to smooth down-- but he won’t, because he gets the idea that Ryan likes his space (and the tufts are also kind of, a little bit, cute). Sometimes Ryan wears make-up, some plain black eyeliner smudged along his hazel eyes, and once he even talked about his make-up kit that needed replenishing, so Brendon knows that the presence of the eyeliner isn’t a rare occurrence.

Brendon imagines Ryan’s room, Ryan’s bathroom. He imagines a little glass on the counter, holding a toothbrush (probably green) and a tube of toothpaste that’s half empty but still lidded neatly and rolled up for convenience. He imagines a comb of some sort, lying beside the sink, and knows that there’ll be a straightener somewhere down in a cupboard. And then a little pouch leaning against the tiled wall, filled with eyeliner pencils and maybe some glitter. Brendon can imagine Ryan with glitter, just. Smeared over his eyes and over the slope of his nose. Green, maybe. Or blue.

“Brendon. Brendon,” Ryan’s voice brings him back from his musings, and Brendon realizes that he’s been walking ahead.

Ryan takes a few steps, reaching Brendon easily, and Brendon asks before Ryan can open his mouth, “what’s your favorite color?”

Ryan blinks, caught off guard. “Um. Green.”

Brendon smiles. They continue walking.

\---

February arrives.

Brendon comes home to find Ryan crouched in his garden, coat half unzipped and jeans speckled with dirt. Brendon crosses the road, backpack bouncing, and peers over the fence. “Ryan Ross!”

Ryan looks up, and his bangs are falling into his eyes. His face is completely clear of make-up, but. Brendon looks, and Ryan looks like he’s shining, sort of.

“Hey.” He says quietly, and leans back on his feet. The ground may be rock solid from the cold months and from the previous lack of care, but Ryan’s settled in front of multiple little lumps of soil and a couple of shallow holes, and a small spade is lying beside him, along with some tiny square packets.

“Are you planting stuff?” Brendon asks, squints at the label on the flat little envelope. Ryan’s hand covers it before he can see, and he crumples it into his fist while swiping the other ones under his heel. “It’s February, Ryan Ross. And this dirt is. It’s bad, it’s not that great for planting.”

Ryan’s gaze lowers again. “I know.”

“I’m not saying you shouldn’t-- listen, whatever makes you--” Brendon hurries to say, because he realizes that he’s never really seen Ryan do much at all, outside. Only go on walks, most of which he’s dragged on (although Brendon wouldn’t say _dragged_ , Ryan didn’t really resist them) and answer Brendon’s questions and listen to Brendon talk-- basically, Ryan follows him, and this is the first time Ryan’s done something outside of that routine. Brendon doesn’t want to stop him from doing whatever’s making Ryan happy-- or at least, happier, probably, he thinks-- even if what he’s doing is probably a useless idea.

But when Ryan meets his eyes again, he doesn’t look dispirited or anything of the sort. “Brendon,” he says lightly. “I know what I’m doing.” And Brendon watches him push soil over the remaining holes.

\---

“My dad doesn’t really care about what I do.” Ryan tells him as Brendon coils the wire of his earbud over his finger, winding it until the earpiece bumps against his nail, and then twirls it the other way again so that it extends and spins in a loose circle around his hand. “I’m lucky enough that he leaves money and food and notes that actually acknowledge me as Ryan.”

“That’s not exactly the epitome of a good relationship.”

“I know.”  

The earbud whips the inside of Brendon’s wrist, and he yelps. Ryan’s mouth lifts into the realest smile Brendon’s seen so far on him.

\---

That Wednesday, it’s warm out. Warm for the middle of February, anyway. Ryan trades his coat for an olive green hoodie, which Brendon touches immediately.

“You have soft clothes, Ryan Ross.” He says cheerfully, thumbing the fabric of the sleeve. Ryan watches him, not jerking away or relaxing into Brendon’s hold or anything, only watching, and Brendon beams.

They walk. Along their usual route, some of the trees boast tiny little birds that flap their wings as Ryan and Brendon pass, and although none of the trees are budding yet-- spring doesn’t roll in until around March-- it’s nice. Ryan walks with a little more bounce in his step.

“Ryan Ross?”

“Yeah?”

“What were you planting?”

Ryan slips his fingers into the pockets of his hoodie. “Just something that may develop into bushes. For now. I’m planning on getting the grass to grow back, and then plant some other stuff.”

“Trees?”

Ryan’s nose crinkles a little, and Brendon. Isn’t watching him, so he doesn’t see the excitement in Ryan’s eyes, at all, or how the corners of his mouth twitch upwards. And if he was, he wasn’t noting how cute the little gestures were, or anything, but he wasn’t watching him anyway, so. “Trees tend to take a long time to grow. But. Eventually, yeah.”

Brendon hums. You know, despite all the questions he’s asked, only now is he starting to notice the pattern-- the coat, the leaves, the plants. So Ryan likes to garden. So Ryan gets excited about spring. So Brendon may think that every new thing he finds out about his neighbor is the best part of his day.

\---

In the first week of March, it rains for two whole days and Ryan doesn’t go outside. Also in the first week of March, Brendon notices that the ugly dirt yard that surrounds Ryan’s house isn’t only just dirt. Emerald green grass sprouts from the soil like hopeful reminders, and Brendon plasters his face to the glass, and smiles through the rivulets of water running down his window.

Within another five days, what was the beginning of the new lawn is flooded and drenched, and now it just looks. Wet. Brendon tells this to Ryan as they slosh through puddles, and Ryan says, “oh, I know. But it’s progress. It’s good.” There’s a cheerful emphasis to Ryan’s usually monotonous voice.

It’s only March. And not only is it just March-- three months since Brendon’s been in Ryan’s company-- but it’s _Ryan_. Brendon still doesn’t know as much about him as he’d prefer to, and Ryan is quiet and Brendon’s only seen anything resembling a real smile on him, like, once-- and yes, he’s cute and Brendon’s a little bit enthralled and possibly infatuated, only a tiny bit, okay-- and what Brendon’s trying to tell himself is, he should not be getting these fluttery feelings, not when it’s so early and Ryan is so _Ryan_ and just, _no crushing on Ryan Ross,_ period. Not for his cute little passions for gardening or the way he wears eyeliner and how he likes green.

_And yet._

\---

Ryan spends the whole entire weekend in his garden.

Brendon watches, enraptured, as Ryan digs on his knees with various seed packets and gardening tools laying about him. At one point, he pauses and nudges his hair behind his ear with the heel of his gloved hand, and the weak sunlight gleams over his cheeks, and the ridge of his nose, his jaw, his neck, just look really good, just like that as he tilts his head up, and Brendon sighs.

Downstairs, Ryan waves at him when he sees Brendon approach. There’s no smile or verbal greeting, but Brendon’s surprised that he really acknowledged him like that at all, so he isn’t going to complain.

Ryan’s yard is still mostly brown and devoid of plant life, but Ryan tells him proudly, “it’s healthy.” Brendon does admit, the soil looks softer, moist, and a couple more sprigs are starting to poke out near the house. Ryan climbs up off the ground and dusts off his knees, dips his chin, and Brendon takes that as an invitation to push open the gate and join him.

“So.” Brendon picks up one of the packets, and Ryan opens his mouth, closes it, and Brendon eases him with a grin. “Sweet peas. Are you planting these ones?”

Ryan’s shoulders relax. “Some of them. Yeah.”

“Cool.” Brendon says earnestly, and he actually means it. “Can you show me?”

The brunet eyes him dubiously for a second, but pulls his gloves off, scoops up some of the packets, and leads Brendon to the front steps, where he sits and curves his spine so that his head is bent forwards and his fringe is falling into his face again.

Brendon waits patiently for Ryan to speak, and when he does, it’s with a quiet sense of enthusiasm. Shy, hidden behind a layer of cautious evenness in his speech, but it’s there. “Certain flowers and plants should be planted at certain times, and since it’s barely March and not exactly spring yet, I, um. Bought some like these-- sweet peas, snowdrops--”

“Tulips?” Brendon suggests, remembering something his mother had told him, and Ryan’s eyebrows raise.

“Yeah, that’s another one that I could plant. But I don’t have any.”

Brendon nods and watches as Ryan tips one of the envelopes so that a handful little round, dark brown seeds spill into his palm. “I’m putting the flowers around the house, like-- close to the walls, and these only are gonna take a few weeks to grow. Some of them, I’ll put in pots, but. At the moment, I don’t have many of those, either.”

“I can get you some,” Brendon offers automatically, and continues after seeing Ryan frown, “my mom has a ton and she doesn’t even use half of them, so. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind giving you a few.”

Ryan digs his toe into the soil. “Um. I guess, maybe. If you’re sure she won’t mind.”

“She won’t.” Brendon assures him, and Ryan turns away, but murmurs a little _‘thank you’_.

\---

“Ryan Ross! C’mere, we’re going shopping.”

“....What.”

Ryan stands at his door, his arm through one of the sleeves of his coat. His eyes are wide, and the thin coating of eyeliner that rim them makes him look unusually shocked.

“Have you ever been to Home Depot?” Brendon asks, sitting in the driver's seat of his (his parents’) car, elbows resting on the edge of his rolled down window.

“Home-- yeah, of course-- you’re not--?”

“We’re going,” Brendon says again, and Ryan just stares at him for a moment before trotting out the gate and around the back of the car. He climbs into the passenger seat, faces Brendon curiously.

“I didn’t know you could drive.”

Brendon shrugs. “You never really asked.”

Ryan sits back. Brendon peers into the rearview mirror, trying to catch a glimpse of his face, but of course the mirror’s reflection doesn’t work that way and Brendon is forced to try and tell if the following silence is guilty, or pensive, or--

“I don’t have that much money.”

Or that. Brendon makes sure Ryan has fastened the seatbelt over his lap before he wheels away from the curb. “That’s fine.”

“No, it’s--”

“Ryan Ross,” Brendon chides. “I said it’s fine. Let me do this, okay?”

\---

Brendon hasn’t been to Home Depot in about three years, but that’s okay, because Ryan seems to know where he’s going. He practically floats down the aisles with an indescribable look on his rounded features, and when Brendon’s shoulder brushes his, Ryan doesn’t move away.

\---

They leave the store with half a dozen packets of seeds and a potted fern more than half Ryan’s height. Ryan’s eyes shine and his face shines and when Brendon helps him settle the fern into the backseat, his lips curve up and his efforts to stop the budding smile, are, for once, somehow, minimal, because Brendon gets a tiny flash of teeth, which has never happened before, okay.

They spend the afternoon transferring the fern into the ground near the fence, and Brendon gets dirt all over his face, and Ryan lets out this. This tiny _giggle_ , and Brendon wants to die. Ryan brings out this shoe box covered in stickers of cacti and bees and little spiky red flowers, shows him where he keeps all the seeds and adds the one they bought today to the neat rows of his collection, and Brendon thinks that this was so totally worth it.

When they’re done, they go out on the sidewalk and Ryan stands with his hands on his hips, surveying the newly planted fern that creeps over the fence in ribbons of light green. Seemingly disorganized clusters of toothpicks adorned with colorful labels dot the ground near the walls, and the grass is growing again, really growing. And it’s almost spring. And Ryan is smiling.

\---

Brendon brings every extra pot they own-- some small, meant for plants that go on desks, some bigger, meant for thick stems and leaves the size of Ryan’s dirt covered hands.

The hands in question cup the first pot Brendon hands to him, one of the smaller ones. Ryan’s trying not to smile faintly, Brendon knows it. He says, “you need to stop doing stuff for me.”

“Don’t say that, Ryan Ross.” Brendon brings the rest of the pots in and sets them next to Ryan’s gate-- at least six of them, stacked into each other. “I don’t mind.”

\---

Ryan looks upset.

“You look upset, Ryan Ross.” Brendon tells him as Ryan shuts the gate carefully Ryan’s hoodie is white today, and Brendon thinks of cherry blossoms and spring sunshine. Today is officially the first day of spring, but it doesn’t really look it-- it’s kind of gray and foggy and not spring-like at all, which may be the reason for Ryan’s mood.

“Just.” Ryan sighs, shrugs. “I don’t know when I’m going to be able to pay you back. For the fern and the seeds, and-- don’t interrupt me, Brendon, I know what you’re going to say-- and my father isn’t around much but he does leave money, and when he _is_ around he cooks and stuff, so don’t say that I need that money for myself like that-- um, mostly I use the money for clothes and extra food if I need it, but, I’m. Uh. I’m saving up for something.”

Ryan doesn’t really ramble like this, and Brendon’s eyebrows shoot up. “Ryan, jeez. We went through this. You don’t have to pay me back.”

“But I’d rather.” Ryan mumbles. “And I will, once I get, um. I want a binder.”

Brendon’s mouth opens in an understanding ‘o’. “Do you want me to buy th-”

“No!” Ryan says, fierce and completely un-Ryan like, and Brendon’s jaw snaps shut. “I want to do that myself. But, thank you.”

Brendon blinks, and then he nods, and then he smiles. “Okay.”

They walk.

“But, seriously. You don’t have to pay me back.” And Ryan takes a breath, and Brendon grabs onto his wrist and tugs him a little bit faster, because he’s suddenly remembered something. “Also, I want to show you something, so shut up.”

Every year that Brendon’s lived here, there’s been this one patch of cherry trees a few blocks away that always bloom early. They’re not exactly hidden, nor are they on the right edge of the street or something, but Brendon knows the route and he tugs Ryan down the road and between a row of houses to where there’s-- not a park or clearing, more like a deserted and overgrown garden that belongs to nobody, small and square and empty. There’s a damp bench and an old soccer ball submerged in some sparse bushes and three dark trunks off to the side that Ryan’s gaze latches onto immediately, eyes traveling up until they land on the little green buds that dot the thin branches, some of which show a hint of white near the tip.

“Oh,” Ryan breathes out, walks forwards. Long fingers reach out to brush the bark, and then he lifts himself up on his tiptoes, stares wonderingly at the beads of pastel color amid the spindly black boughs.

“Spring’s coming,” Brendon says from behind him, and Ryan turns around and. Smiles. It’s soft, the slightest show of teeth, the gentlest curl of lips, but it’s completely and utterly genuine.

Brendon smiles back.

\---

Ryan is planting his second fern. This one’s taller but skinnier, a darker green, and when Brendon touches his finger to one of the thin leaves, the edges are bumpy and irregular. Ryan has dug up a spot near the first one (but not too close, because it was supposed to grow out, according to him) and Brendon stands behind him and holds the plant up, soil-laden roots dragging against the ground.

This one had actually come from Brendon’s cousin, who was clearing out his garden and didn’t know what to do with the fern that had been growing behind their shed for the past eleven years, and Brendon had called and said that he could take it off his hands, no problem. And why Brendon would go into the trouble of getting Ryan Ross a new plant, well. Ryan’s his friend. Who happens to be into gardening, a lot. It’s the right thing to do.

Also, seeing Ryan’s face brighten is. Really nice. Brendon kind of lives for it, actually 

“Okay,” Ryan calls, “pass it over.” Brendon wordlessly kneels and holds out the crumbling mess of roots and dirt, which Ryan holds in his beat-up gardening gloves (they were once white with a thicker stripe of flowers cutting through the palm, some weird design not exactly meant for the toil of gardening, as the fabric is now a grimy gray color and the floral pattern is beyond faded). Ryan places it, shoves excess dirt around where the fern’s getting buried, pats it into place, and Brendon stands and watches.

“There.” He says, satisfied, and gets up, removing his gloves by the tips of the fingers. The seed box lies next to a stack of toothpicks and a sheet of plain white stickers, some of them which already have labels written on them in Ryan’s careful, sloped handwriting: daffodils. Crocuses. Bluebells. Beside each name, Brendon has drawn a little flower based off of Ryan’s description, and while some of them are completely inaccurate (“Brendon, you’ve seen _daffodils_ before, come _on_ \-- that looks like a windmill.”), Ryan was giving Brendon glimpses of his actual smile and some real, honest-to-god laughter at the smiley bees perched upon the petals of the pair of sweet peas he had doodled, so Brendon considers it a victory.

“Also.” Ryan adds, fingers tapping at the back of his hands his wrists, “I, um. Wanted to give you something. In return for the ferns and stuff-- shut _up_ , Brendon, it’s not money. Wait here a second, okay?”

And Brendon didn’t even open his mouth to speak, didn’t even think of it, actually, because, _what?_ He watches as Ryan darts into his house (his house which is still a mystery to Brendon, but oh well) and comes out a minute later with a little, pale brown pot nestled in his palms, and there, coming from the center of the earthy soil is a tiny sprig of green.

“It’s the sweet peas.” Ryan says, soft and shy. “I wanted to try planting them in a pot before I planted them outdoors, and here’s one, and I thought you could put it in your room or something, I don’t know.”

Brendon takes the pot, holds it and thinks, _oh no, I’m really screwed_ , and stutters for the first time since he had set eyes on the nervously smiling boy in front of him.

“Thank you, Ryan Ross.”

\---

Brendon’s room is square, with blue walls plastered with posters and scraps of magazine, pictures of friends and family and cute dogs and nice views. His bed is beside his window, sloppily made with the white curtains billowing over his pillow with every forceful gust of wind, and there’s a desk pushed against the headboard, cluttered with books and pens and a laptop and a lamp that extends over the mess. There’s a closet and a peach colored beanbag and a shelf with more books, and now, there’s a little pot next to his bed, beside his iPod and earbuds. In the pot, a newly-leafed sprout the size of Brendon’s pinky emerges from the dirt, another shoot curling upwards a few inches away, and a shaft of sunlight rests on it like it’s the sole focus of the room.

\---

It’s almost April, and the grass is _really_ starting to grow. Brendon feels a little guilty when he crosses Ryan’s lawn, conscious of the thin stalks beneath his feet, but Ryan assures him that it’s fine.

Along with the development of Ryan’s garden, trees are starting to bloom-- all of them, in explosions of pale pink and white that coat the branches like a fleecy blanket, spill over the sidewalks like snow. Ryan smiles more, meaning that Brendon smiles more, and Ryan’s eyes linger on Brendon’s grins more than they used to, not that Brendon pays attention or overthinks it, or anything.

They’re walking, like they usually do. Ryan’s got his white sweater and a pair of fingerless gloves, soft looking ones with thick gray and white stripes that actually appear to be regular winter gloves with half of the fingers cut off, according to the frayed edges that hug Ryan’s digits. The sweater has a little potted cactus on it now, a patch Ryan had gotten somewhere and ironed onto the front, near the zipper. When Brendon sees it, he laughs and runs his nail down the image of the blunt plant, and Ryan doesn’t shy away. Brendon feels him stiffen and retracts his hand immediately, but. Ryan doesn’t move away.

They don’t need to go to the early blooming trees from before, not when their surroundings are made up of so much pastel pink and white, soft colors in every direction. Brendon hears Ryan’s unobtrusive giggle, turns.

“You’ve got a flower in your hair.” He says, leans forward and picks a snowy blossom from Brendon’s dark brown hair, ruffled from the breeze. He lets the delicate shape fall into Brendon’s hand, who looks at it a second before tucking it behind his ear.

“Thanks, Ryan Ross,” Brendon replies cheerfully and when Ryan smiles (teeth and all), he steps to the nearest tree, reaches up and plucks a flower of his own. “You can have one too.” The white petals flutter as Brendon holds it out, and when Ryan kind of just stares, he brings it behind Ryan’s fringe and settles it there, and.

And for a moment, they stand across from each other, Ryan with his plant hoodie and homemade fingerless gloves, and Brendon in a plain red shirt that shows his bare shoulders despite the chill, each with a fragile white cherry blossom perched in their hair and smiles on their faces-- Ryan’s soft and timid, Brendon’s wide and easy, and Brendon decides that he’s going to rethink his whole _no-crushing-on-Ryan-Ross_ policy first thing next morning.

\---

Brendon’s birthday is in April, and he tells Ryan this as they sit in his front yard (the ferns are doing well, and the bunches of flowers living the house are starting to grow along their toothpick markers). Ryan spreads his fingers out over the step he’s sitting on, and says, “I know. I asked you.”

He sounds proud.

\---

Brendon gets the usual for his birthday. Some gift cards, some clothes, some video games some posters, nothing out of the ordinary. But Ryan gets him a book, and he’s seen this book before-- Ryan has one of them, not the exact same copy but pretty similar, battered and dog eared and worn but Ryan treats it with so much care that Brendon is sure the damage must have come from someone else, someone who owned it before Ryan did. And Ryan has gotten Brendon one too, clean and crisp, filled with thick pages that he flips through to see pictures of rainbow petals, scientific names in small print, vines and ferns native to certain places, types of insects that rest in certain flowers. The cover says _Plants of North America_ , unlike Ryan’s; his says _Plants of the World_ but Brendon can’t complain, not when his interest for nature has tripled already since he met Ryan and this is the perfect gift.

“This is my favorite,” Brendon confides to him in the evening, when it gets darker and the sun goes down. “It’s going on my bedside table, with the sweet peas.”

In the dark, Brendon can’t tell if the shade of Ryan’s cheeks is natural or a blush-- not that Ryan would be blushing, that’s. Not like Ryan, not at all. Right?

“I’m glad you like it.”

\---

Halfway through April, Ryan calls Brendon _‘B_ ’.

He’s gardening, hovering over a collection of freshly planted toothpick markers that show the location of the morning glory seeds (a little late for morning glories, but Ryan had the seeds and was too impatient to wait a whole other _year_ ), and he calls, “B, can you pass me the watering can?” and Brendon’s head jerks up and his jaw drops a little because Ryan has never called him anything than ‘Brendon’, and this. This is new.

When Brendon doesn’t respond, Ryan turns around with worry in his hazel eyes and repeats, “the watering can, it’s right behind you.”

Right. Yes. Brendon can do that.

Brendon has decided that Ryan is the spring. He blooms with the cherry blossoms and warms in the sun, cracks smiles when snow turns to April showers and graces him with his quiet laughs when the start birds sing again. Brendon also decides that he likes spring, a lot. 

\---

When Ryan and Brendon go on their traditional walk, looping around neighborhoods and scuffling through heaps of petals, Ryan is wearing a t-shirt.

It’s plain and white, and the collar is a little worn and there are some threads poking out of the cut of the sleeves, and his olive hoodie is tied firmly around his waist, but he’s wearing a shirt and he looks happy.

“I got my binder,” he tells Brendon, and Brendon smiles his biggest smile. He knows that Ryan’s dysphoria could be worse, of course it could be (and he’s thankful that it’s not), but Ryan hates his chest and the binder, it’s a step.

Ryan smiles back. “And I told my dad, and I think he felt guilty that he hadn’t really thought about it-- although, I don’t mind, because I’d honestly rather that he just. Not really think about it at all; it’s not something mind-blowing, or. I don’t know, I’m just. Fine. And he gave me forty dollars for plants.”

“Cool.” Brendon says. “Home Depot, or?”

“Yeah.” Ryan sighs, joyous and lively, and rattles off the names of some plants he found in his book that he thinks would grow well in his garden. Brendon listens, and is happy with him.

\---

“I want a cherry tree.” Ryan says wistfully with an old blossom hidden between his fingers.

“Next summer.” Brendon responds, and the fact that the flowers are practically gone from the trees, replaced by clumps of leaves, doesn’t bother him much. He’ll be here next year.

Ryan’s lips twitch. “It’s not going to grow that fast, B.”

If his heart beats any faster, Brendon doesn’t feel it, not at all. “We can still plant it and in five years, you’ll have your own cherry tree in your front yard. Blossoms and everything.”

“Yeah.” Ryan sticks his hands out, lets the blossom flit to the ground. “Okay.”

\---

It’s May. Only May, and Ryan’s yard is looking so much better-- there’s grass-- lots of grass, actually, healthy and bright green, and the ferns have expanded so that they begin to spill over each other in vibrant streamers of pea and emerald. The walls of the house are lined with tiny flowers, mostly bluebells, and it’s funny because Ryan’s garden doesn’t follow any aesthetic-- there are his ferns, long and elegant, and his flowers, small and dainty, and this huge bush Brendon doesn’t know the name of squatting feathery and secure between one of the ferns and a set of wooden poles Ryan has set out for future vines.

“Aesthetic?” Ryan repeats when Brendon asks him about it. “I don’t have an aesthetic. Well, if I did, it would be, just. Plants overgrowing from their pots, falling over the edges of flower boxes, climbing up walls and sprouting every which way. I like that.”

Ryan pulls a pot out of his house, it being too heavy to lift (and no, Brendon couldn’t go in and help him, he hasn’t been in his house, not yet, still not yet) and there’s a plant practically bursting out of the rounded edges. Brendon does help in transferring it into the soil, though, and Ryan rubs his fingers along one healthy leaf.

“You know the tea roses we planted? They should sprout soon, and it’ll make the space near the walls looks less bare, because you know-- the bluebells aren’t that dense.” Ryan tells him absently, and Brendon nods.

\---

Brendon shows Ryan his room. Ryan takes in the walls, how almost every inch is covered in some sort of picture or poster. He wanders to the desk, asking permission with his eyes and then touching his fingers to the textbooks, the stack of lined paper cluttered with math equations and doodles of cacti in pots and vines spilling from hanging boxes.

When he gets to the pot of sweet peas and sees how the buds have opened into flared petals of pink and purple, notices the book he had gotten him lying beside it, his face lights up. He opens to the first page and out falls a dried oak leaf, crisp and brown and on the verge of crumbling, a couple of stray strips of fern, still supple and fresh, and a flattened out, white cherry blossom.

“I like your room.” Ryan says, like a secret.

\---

Brendon doesn’t tell him, but the blossom pressed between the pages is the one that Ryan picked from his hair.

\---

Ryan plants his vines. Brendon sits cross-legged near him and follows their names in his book with his finger: moonflower, _ipomoea alba_ . In the picture, the plant has wide, heart-shaped leaves and it circles a window like a wreath. Coral honeysuckle, _lonicera sempervirens_ . The book claims that the thin pink flowers that drop from the vine attract hummingbirds, although Brendon doubts that a hummingbird would end up in their neighborhood. Sweet autumn clematis, _clematis terniflora_. Ryan says that this one will bloom in late summer but that it spreads wide and thick, and he wants to make the plants he has now take up more space. Brendon traces the image, looks up and sees Ryan gazing back at him with a smile playing on his lips.

“I was thinking,” offers Brendon, closing the book gently and placing it in his lap. “You could pull something out, like canvas, or a sheet, between those poles you put-- kind of like a little roof, for the summer. So you could sit in the shade.”

“If the vines grow enough, we wouldn’t need it.” Ryan counters but then considers, says, “I’ll check inside.”

A few minutes later Ryan comes out with a big triangular shaped piece of canvas (“found it in the basement,”), a pair of kitchen scissors and some strips of rope that have been chopped into smaller pieces. The green and white ends are kind of frayed and ugly, but Ryan shrugs and says that the vines will cover them, and together they work on hacking holes into the corners of the thick fabric and stretching the canvas between three of the poles, near the ferns and by the fence. Ryan loops one end of a piece rope into the first uneven hole and ties the other end to the rod, binds it firm and tight, and Brendon helps him with the other too until the canvas is drawn over a little section of ground, just high up enough so that they can crouch if they have to, but instead they sit with the book and the seed box and Ryan’s selection of tools and Ryan points to all the places where he wants plants, and Brendon listens thinks about how much the garden has developed and how much Ryan’s developed and how much _he’s_ developed.

\---

Ryan finally shows Brendon his house. 

It somehow feels smaller on the inside than he it looks on the outside. There’s a living room with a couch and a coffee table and a TV and a tan carpet spread over the floor, and there’s a kitchen with one of those marble islands in the center, and it’s empty except for a single placemat and one of the smaller pots, this one holding a single, drooping white flower (“That’s a snowdrop,” Ryan explains when Brendon points and asks). There’s a space that Brendon assumes was supposed to be the dining room, but Ryan tells him that he always eats in the kitchen and if his dad’s around, he does too. So, the dining room is a living room extension, with a thicker carpet-- this one white-- and a low couch with a couple of throw cushions scattered over the seats 

Ryan leads Brendon upstairs, and he seems a bit shy, a bit hesitant all over again. Brendon reaches out to knock his pinkie against Ryan’s, whispers, “you don’t have to be embarrassed, Ryan Ross,” and Ryan makes a little sound like a murmur or a hum.

“Dad’s room--” they pass a room with a king sized bed, sheets tangled in an unmade heap, followed by an office room that’s neat and organized. Ryan says dismissively, “it’s never been used,” and then they step into Ryan’s room.

The walls are white and the curtains are white but dotted with little potted cacti that resemble the one on Ryan’s hoodie, and they’re drawn to each side so that the view of his growing garden is visible. Pushed against the wall with the window is a desk, spanning across the room and wooden, with shelves climbing up one side. There are cups crammed with pencils and and stacks of books, a collection of CDs kept propped up another plant, this one containing a light purple succulent. There’s an open laptop and a calculator and Ryan’s plant book, and a chair with Ryan’s hoodie draped across the back. The other wall has another shelf, this one filled with books, and across from it is Ryan’s bed, which has green and teal and pale blue blankets. Ryan sits nervously on the edge of his mattress and Brendon says, “woah”.

“It took me a bit to move in.” Ryan mumbles. “I like the outdoors, and I like green and, you know-- nature-- and I wanted to get my room to be as close to the outdoors as possible. And in the spring and summer, and even in fall, too, I can look outside and it’s green and pink and orange and colorful and great but when I came here in the winter, everything was. Cold and drab. And so yeah, it’s easier now, but--” he shrugs, ducks his head. “I hated it in the winter. I hate the winter.”

“Maybe you could add more plants here.” Brendon proposes. “Like the one on your desk. Cover your shelves, get one of those ones that’s really high, you can put it next to your closet, or-- you know those plants that you can put in those boxes, and hang from the ceiling? You could get those. I can help you, if you want.” 

Brendon sits next to Ryan on the bed, and maybe their knees brush, just a little bit. Ryan says, “that sounds great, B.”

\---

“Smile, Ryan Ross!” Ryan looks up, startled, and Brendon snaps a quick picture of his face with the camera Ryan had brought down from his room, to document how the garden was looking (which, in Brendon’s opinion, was pretty great-- everything was healthy and Ryan had _another_ fern-- he had admitted they were his favorite-- and honestly, it was going to look even greater in the summer).

“Did you just take a picture?” Ryan demands and stands up, but his face is amused.

Brendon backs up, tripping over his feet. “Maybe.”

“Let me see that.” Ryan makes a grab for the camera, and Brendon twists back and takes another shot, a close-up of Ryan’s heat-flushed cheeks and damp hair. “Brendon!”

He laughs, dashes to the side, and Ryan jumps after him indignantly, catching hold of the camera and hooking his ankle around Brendon’s, throwing him off balance. They teeter in the air for a moment before Brendon collapses to the ground, soft grass getting crushed under his back, and tries to hold the camera out of arm’s reach but Ryan, of course, is made of endless limbs and so he gets it easily; plucks it from Brendon’s fingers with a tiny smirk.

“Don’t delete them!” Brendon protests, and then is unable to say much more when he realizes their position: Brendon flat on the ground with Ryan’s knees on either side of his chest, face only inches away from his. Ryan seems fine; he straightens up and clicks through the photos, and when Brendon tries to squirm away he pushes him down with one hand and takes a quick picture. Just like that, with Brendon’s eyes bright and cheeks pink and dark hair spread over the lawn.

“I’m keeping all of them.” He says, rolls off. “Now we’re even.”

They run around the yard for the rest of the afternoon, taking pictures of a yellow-orange ladybug they find, a budding daffodil, the beginning of Ryan’s vines starting to grasp out at the rods that they’re meant to later climb. Brendon captures the moment when Ryan bites down on his bottom lip, dropping seeds over a designated spot; Ryan snaps a shot of Brendon juggling seed packets and collapsing into laughter when one hits Ryan on the forehead. Ryan stares at it on his camera when Brendon’s not looking, a shining face and the blur of his hands, and smiles wide.

\---

“How did you get so many pictures?”

Brendon sounds accomplished when he replies. “Over time. I used to save everything, and I don’t know-- it became a habit. Every poster of every band I like, every postcard I get, clippings from newspapers, you know.”

“I like it. It’s, um, like-- remember when you asked me about my aesthetic? And I said, overgrown stuff, messy gardens-- I feel like this is kinda yours, photos with curling edges and old tape and posters from, like, five years ago.”

“Yeah,” says Brendon, and fixes a picture of Ryan working under the ferns to his wall with leaf-patterned tape.

\---

When Brendon next sees Ryan’s room, he notices immediately that Ryan’s been doing some work. There are another three plants, all succulents in pale shades of green and red and blue, all with perfect smooth edges and pointy tips. There’s something very studious about the plant that matches the state of Ryan’s shelves; Brendon thinks it suits him.

In addition to that, on the empty patch of wall in between the wall and window, above Ryan’s desk, Ryan has fastened a piece of string up with the same leaf tape he had let Brendon borrow. It curves down in the middle-- by no means stretched taut-- and there are some pictures clipped to it, square and printed on sleek and glossy photo paper.

Ryan leans against the doorframe as Brendon walks up to it, examines the three photos pinned up already. “You inspired it.”

The first is an old one-- Brendon can vaguely remember Ryan with a camera in the first few weeks he was here, and it’s just Brendon with a lavender hoodie and his hands jammed into the pockets. He’s not looking at the camera, and his shoulders are curved in against the bitter cold. It’s not really anything special; Brendon doesn’t even recall having it taken, but Ryan looks at it with this soft fondness on his face, so Brendon doesn’t say anything.

The second is a shot of their neighborhood, mostly Ryan’s house and the first ferns he had gotten, struggling to rise over the fence, and the sky is a solid blue and there are pink and white blossoms edging into the frame. Again, Brendon doesn’t think too much of it. And the third is from last week, of Brendon mid-laugh as he tosses seed packets into the air, juggling three with various degrees of success before trying to add one and ultimately failing. Plants grow thick and healthy in the background, and Brendon hears their laughter mingling in his mind.

There’s a something white peeking from behind the photo, and Brendon moves it to the side to see that it’s one of the little envelopes-- wallflowers, _erysimum._

“Is it okay?”

Ryan’s voice is tentative, and Brendon feels so much warmth rush through his heart, a tingling heat that makes his cheeks glow and his smile brighten. “It’s perfect, Ryan Ross.”

\---

June comes and Brendon just. Can’t _believe_ how in six short months, half a year, Ryan Ross has managed to make a whole goddamn _jungle_ grow in his front yard.

In the first week of June, Ryan runs outside in one of his loose t-shirts, his fringe flopping adorably, and he grabs Brendon’s hands and spins him. _Spins him_ in a little circle, grinning wildly, and Brendon almost has a heart attack, then and there. He grins back, pretends he doesn’t notice the way their fingers have become intertwined in those few seconds of movement.

“School ends in, like, a week and a half,” Ryan rushes out, excitement evident in his voice, “and then I’m just. Gonna sit in my yard, and garden and buy ferns and sleep and it’s gonna be great, and you’re gonna join me, okay, B?”

“Where else would I be, Ryan Ross?” Brendon’s head is whirling a little, not from the spinning but more from Ryan’s joy and the way it pours from him and Brendon wants to see him like this all day, every day.

Maybe Ryan isn’t the spring, but the summer: shining brighter and brighter every day, carefree and everything Brendon looks forward to.

Maybe Ryan is every season. Maybe Brendon doesn’t have a favorite anymore; maybe it depends on if Ryan’s by his side.

\---

School ends.

On the first day of vacation, Brendon carries out a white and red checkered cloth (it’s so cliché, but also _traditional_ , come on) and Ryan makes lemonade, and they sit on the island in Ryan’s kitchen and argue about how much sugar to put in. Thirty minutes and about a total of eight heaping spoonfuls of the stuff later, they burst back outside with over-sweetened drinks and a bowl of dark, dark cherries, and they spread the blanket underneath the canvas (now camouflaged by a layer of leaves and vines, hidden from outsiders by the fence and the ferns) and lie on their backs and stare at the slice of sky outside the dipping roof. Brendon sips through a purple straw and Ryan holds a plump cherry between his teeth, and when Brendon glances over (don’t think about his mouth, don’t think about his mouth) his eyes light up and he sits abruptly, almost hitting his head and practically choking on the fruit.

“B, this is our opportunity to plant our cherry tree,” he gasps out after hacking once or twice, the cherry tucked into the inside of his cheek. Brendon’s eyebrows raise and he mouths, _oh_.

“Right! I’ll get a bowl, and how do you-- cherry trees, is that in your book--?” Brendon crawls out, almost spilling his lemonade but catching the tall glass at the last second, and Ryan nods and shoves another pair of cherries in his mouth.

Brendon searches the cabinets and grabs a smaller bowl, and then sprints upstairs to grab the book (and sends an affectionate glance to the latest picture on the string; one of Ryan grabbing at the camera with his smile showing between his fingers). Back outside, Ryan has a handful of seeds that he drops into the bowl, and then he takes the book and flips to the correct page.

“Oh, we’re not supposed to plant them directly…” Ryan sucks his lip in _(don’t think about his mouth!)_ and skims the paragraph. “Oh. Well, save them, I’ll need planting medium and a container, but save them anyway, here--” he picks a cluster of four cherries from the bowl, pops one into his mouth.

“Alright. Here, catch--” Brendon tosses a cherry at Ryan’s face, who bats it away instead. It tumbles onto the blanket, and Brendon rolls his eyes. “Weak.”

Ryan laughs breathlessly-- and Brendon thinks, Ryan’s still soft and quiet and and gentle, and yeah, his smiles tend to be less frequent than Brendon’s constant grin, but he’s _happy,_ and it shows. And Brendon’s also a little bit in love with him, and that probably shows too, oh well-- but when Ryan’s eating cherries like _that_ , come _on_ , and it’s not helping that whenever he catches Brendon’s quick glances at his lips he just smiles wider.

\---

They have a routine. They walk, yes, and sometimes they sit in Brendon’s air conditioned room and listen to music, or lie on the carpet or Ryan’s empty house and copy flowers or bugs from Ryan’s book onto nice paper so that they can slip it into future albums or stick it onto Brendon’s wall.

But most of the time, they play and work in Ryan’s garden; they write down all the plants Ryan wants growing there and fruits that they can buy that have plantable seeds, and Brendon lines the front steps with three potted plants that stand like guards to a castle. Ryan surprises Brendon with the hose, and the air is filled with shrieks and gasps of laughter as Brendon chases him, sopping wet and shaking droplets from his hair like a dog, and eventually tackles him to the ground and pours the content of the watering can on Ryan’s face.

“We should get water balloons.” Brendon says, and staggers away from Ryan’s thin body, which is shaking with laughter. He grabs the green gel pen they’ve been using to write their list of stuff to do and plant this summer and scribbles down, _‘water balloons’_ , and if a couple of droplets of water fall to the paper and smear the ink a bit, it’s only evidence of Ryan’s unrestrained smile and Brendon’s dripping fringe.

“Okay.” Ryan wheezes, chokes a little on the water and on his silent giggles, and when Brendon is distracted he splashes water at his jean-clad leg.

\---

They buy a whole entire watermelon for some reason, even though Ryan insists at first that it’s too much, and then struggle to bring it home and roll it onto the kitchen counter. Brendon cuts it in deft strokes and they bring thick slices outside to eat on the grass. Pink juice runs down their fingers and wrists, and like before, they spit the black seeds into a bowl so that Ryan can keep them for later, and when they’re done they lie back sated and sticky and and let the sun beat down.

\---

Brendon gets Ryan a baby peach tree the size of Ryan’s forearm, and they plant it next to the window.

Ryan says, “we could have a whole orchard.”

“Yeah,” Brendon laughs, gesturing at the vines and ferns growing wild on the other side of the garden. When he thinks about it, the garden’s not even that big, which explains how it looked like it got filled up so quickly, but it’s nevertheless still impressive. “An orchard to go along with the jungle part and the flower part.”

The smaller flowers haven’t been doing as well as the other greenery, but the rosebushes are starting to become thicker and the morning glories begin to creep up the walls and to the side. Ryan watches with no small amount of pride.

“Yeah.”

\---

It’s the evening, maybe eight o’clock and getting dark, and Ryan’s curled on his side while Brendon fits raspberries over his fingers and pops them into his mouth, one by one. They’re still wet and sporting tiny beads of water from getting washed, and Brendon studies them in the dim light with a hazy mind, and doesn’t notice how Ryan is watching him, coppery eyes glinting.

Ryan turns over, pushing the polka-dotted bowl of fruit off to the side and dragging his gaze away from Brendon’s fingertips, from his red-stained lips, and Brendon’s heart speeds up, or maybe slows down, and Ryan is very close, wow. He whispers, “can you stay?”

“Like, the night? Here?” Brendon asks automatically, and the answer is obvious, but he’s a little caught off guard, okay.

“Yeah. Bring blankets down here or go inside if it’s too cold or noisy or something.”

“Okay.” So Ryan scrambles away, off to get some blankets and pillows, and Brendon weighs the possibilities-- their neighborhood is quiet and the chances of someone getting over the fence or something is slim, and Brendon never sleeps outside, and Ryan’s going to be there, and so. Definitely not a bad idea.

Ryan comes out a few minutes later with colorful blankets spilling from his arms and a couple of pillows piled on top, and dumps them over Brendon’s spread out form. “Here. Two blankets and two pillows each.”

Brendon pulls one away, black and brown plaid soft in his hands. “Where’d you get these?”

Ryan’s smile is a little bit lopsided. “My dad’s room. I don’t think he’s here this weekend.”

They’re both already wearing sweatpants, worn and supple, but Ryan goes back in to take off his binder and change into a different shirt, one less tight and less dirt streaked. Brendon finishes the raspberries and takes the bowl inside when he’s done, and he meets Ryan in the living room, hair tousled and messy, and a band shirt three times too big sliding off one slim and pale shoulder. They walk back outside together as the sun goes down, construct makeshift forts from their abundant supply of blankets, and Ryan is letting out tiny, soft snores within another half-hour.

Brendon keeps his eyes fixed on the night sky, searching for stars (the sky is clear but black, devoid of any bright lights) but he can’t help but notice how Ryan is sleeping on one side, one elbow folded under his cheek and the other arm lying palm up between them. He breathes in through his parted lips and blows out through his nose in audible puffs, and sometimes if his chestnut fringe is too close the little exhales make the strands bounce up, just slightly. The ferns against the glow of the streetlamp nearby cast thin shadows over Ryan’s peaceful face, and Brendon ditches the stargazing and twists towards Ryan instead.

\---

When they wake, it’s with languid stripes of sun creeping through the wall of plants and warming two motionless bodies, and it’s with blankets cast to the side except for one, which is draped over two sets of parallel shoulders, and it’s with locked fingers and mingling breath.

\---

Brendon stays in Ryan’s house or garden more than in his own home.

\---

“You know, I’m really glad that you dragged me on walks and bought me nice plants and kept me company when I worked.” Ryan muses, and he’s leaning against Brendon’s chest.

“You know,” Brendon mimics, and then grins large and honest. “I’m also pretty glad about dragging you on walks and buying you nice plants and keeping you company. I think it was a good idea.”

Ryan presses closer like he’s melting, and his head is tilted up at the perfect angle, and Brendon’s head is dipped just right, and when their noses brush, light and innocent, Brendon’s too giddy to be disappointed.

\---

“You know what else we should do?” Ryan states, tapping the gel pen against his thigh.

“Mm?”

“We should get roasted chestnuts. We would do that where we used to live, go out and there would be people on the streets who would sell you little brown paper bags filled with roasted chestnuts, and they would still be warm, and you get the shell off and eat them like that, and it’s really nice in the fall and winter.”

“I didn’t think you liked the winter.”

“It’s not my favorite season. I think I might like it better this year, though.”

Ryan jots down, _‘eat roasted chestnuts’._ The list is messy and stained with water and dirt, the edges torn and crumpled. Ryan keeps it between the pages of his book when they’re not adding things, and so far some of Brendon’s favorites are _‘sled down a hill’, ‘buy cotton candy’,_ and _‘get Ryan testosterone injections/pills’_.

“What if we can’t find them here? I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone selling chestnuts.”

“Then we make our own,” Ryan concludes, balancing the pen behind his ear. It falls out immediately.

Brendon’s almost smiling as Ryan searches the folds and creases of the blanket for the pen. “We’ll end up burning something down.”

“They’ll be _great_ chestnuts, B,” Ryan corrects him, and Brendon’s lips curl up.

\---

Ryan Ross makes his move in the way that Ryan Ross does things-- soft and gentle and timid, but so passionate, oh _god_ so passionate. They’re sitting under the ferns and Ryan just. Frowns, looks up in a lull during the conversation. And then curls himself to the side and plants a sweet kiss to the corner of Brendon’s mouth.

Just like that.

And Brendon has spent so long waiting and dreaming that he freezes for a good five seconds, leaving Ryan to draw back with dark cheeks and concerned eyes, before he lets out a soft burst of breathy laughter and leans back in, desperate and hasty. Their noses bump, Ryan is twisted into something awkward and uncomfortable and Brendon’s neck is bent painfully, but they’re smiling against each other and _sosoclose_ and _sososoft_ and Brendon’s chest has never felt this tight and warm before.

Ryan crawls into Brendon’s lap and Brendon holds him close, massages circles into Ryan’s cheeks and inhales the scent of soil and strawberries, and Ryan is a season Brendon has never seen before; he’s a mixture of everything Brendon loves and a whole separate thing completely, and he’s sitting on Brendon’s lap and kissing him, and Brendon is so, so lucky.

\---

They fall asleep under the tangled vines when the heat becomes hazy and numbing, and wake up with the first flurry of cool summer wind. Ryan tugs Brendon close and buries his nose in Brendon’s collar, takes deep breathes and falls asleep while Brendon reads. Brendon shakes him awake when he starts to shiver, and they bring the books and blankets inside and munch on toast and once it starts to rain, the first time in months, they’re back outside again, water-flecked hair and glistening shoulders. Ryan skids on a slippery patch of sidewalk and walks back to the house with an arm around Brendon’s shoulders, one knee scraped and bruised, but still happy.

\---

“Kites! B, we should fly a kite.”

July _is_ a little windy, and Brendon adds it to the list.

Ryan bites into a nectarine. “You know, I’m actually thinking a lot about the orchard part. We’ve got a peach tree, and seeds for cherries and watermelon and pears, but there’s this tiny lemon one I saw at Home Depot and I think they’re selling strawberry bushes, a summer special--”

“Home Depot it is,” Brendon stands and holds his hand out, and Ryan takes it. He remembers homemade fingerless gloves, and thinks that Ryan’s hands would look better in them if his pinkie was hooked with Brendon’s, and then realizes that he’ll get the chance to see it because _Ryan is here and Ryan is staying_.

\---

Brendon takes a picture. He turns the camera and nudges Ryan’s shoulder, and when he looks up at him and his features are all soft and affectionate, Brendon clicks the button.

“B!” Ryan swipes it away, checks the photo and his smile falters when he sees his expression, devoted and lovestruck and open for the whole world to see. “I. Oh.”

But half of Brendon’s equally devoted smile is visible in the frame, and apparently that half is enough because Ryan gingerly gives the camera back. “I really like you,” he says, soft like the winter chill Brendon once knew him as.

Brendon had been observing with worry in his eyes and anxiety in his plummeting heart, but at Ryan’s words he drops the camera and brings his hand to Ryan’s lifted chin.

“Ryan Ross,” he chides, “I’ve liked you this whole time, can’t you see?”

Ryan’s hand covers his.

\---

“I never want summer to end.”

“It doesn’t have to. We’ll bring it into fall and drag it through winter. Seasons suck, anyway.”

Ryan laughs.

\---

Every day, they try to cross things off their list at the pace that they add them. Ryan brings a tub of cotton candy, wispy and pink like the cherry blossoms (it feels like yesterday). Brendon gets a handful of popsicle sticks and they scoop tufts of sugar and when Brendon stares down at Ryan’s sticky lips a moment too long, Ryan almost knocks the plastic bucket over as he brings their mouths together, fingers finding hair. Ryan’s nails are syrupy, in a way, and he tastes deliciously sweet, and they topple to the ground with shirts riding high and eyes shut tight.

\---

Brendon helps Ryan with the shot, the first time. They’ve consulted a doctor, found the right dose, checked and double checked the procedure; everything is settled and Ryan stands in the middle of the semi-lighted living room wearing one of Brendon’s shirts and a pair of boxers, Brendon kneeling at his side. He’s wearing sterile gloves and he’s washed his hands about five times, and he rolls the fabric up Ryan’s thigh and feels Ryan shake when he rubs the alcohol pad on his skin.

“Relax.” He whispers, wanting to stand up, kiss Ryan’s lips, his cheek, his neck, but opting instead to look up at him with all the care he can muster in his dark eyes. Ryan stares back, lips pursed tight, and slowly, he nods. Brendon feels the tension escape his muscles.

“Okay.” Brendon takes a deep breath and Ryan mirrors him, and he jabs the needle into Ryan’s skin and steadily presses down on the plunger. Ryan hisses out and Brendon checks to see if there’s any blood in the syringe-- nope, they’re good-- once the plunger is depressed completely, Brendon slides the needle out and quickly peels a band-aid out of it’s wrapping, covers the spot and smooths down the edges.

“B, I said I didn’t need a band-aid.” Ryan says weakly, his fingers finding Brendon’s hair and running through it, anchoring himself to the boy at his feet.

“It has a cactus on it.” Brendon leans forward and noses the spot of skin right next to it, and Ryan’s laugh is shaky but genuine.

\---

August burns hot and Ryan and Brendon blaze through it, exchanging stories and soft kisses (and harder ones; there are bruises running down Brendon’s jaw and Ryan smirks whenever he sees them). There’s a pool nearby that doesn’t close until late, so they spend the last warm hours of the day with Brendon paddling through the still, clear water while Ryan perches on the edge and lets his ankles dangle, or sometimes he wades in knee deep and they exchanges splashes until the sun goes down over the treetops and they get kicked out.

They sleep inside, on the floor of the living room and encased with thick pillows stolen from the now bare couches. Ryan’s eyes shine in the dark and his thumb strokes Brendon jaw, and when it wanders down to Brendon’s sensitive neck and Brendon snorts, kicking his leg out and causing their fort to collapse over their heads, they make no move to set it back up. Ryan’s fingers curl against Brendon’s pulse and they doze off like that, with Brendon’s hair still wet and smelling of chlorine and Ryan’s breath warming his face.

\---

Ryan takes Brendon up to his bathroom and sits on the edge of the tub as Brendon digs through his make-up kit.

“Glitter.” Brendon brandishes the little jar. “I knew you’d have glitter.”

“Something wrong with that?”

“Definitely not. C’mere.”

Ryan moves to the the floor, stands as Brendon heaves himself up on the counter so that Ryan’s arms are on either side of him, settled between his knees, and Brendon’s hands are level with Ryan’s face.

Today, he and Ryan had seen the first leaves sink down from the trees outside their houses, and although it’s still early and almost a month away from the beginning of fall, Brendon wants to mark the day by painting Ryan’s face with autumn colors. He dips a brush in the sparkling red and drags it over the bridge of Ryan’s nose, drawing a thick, horizontal line, and Ryan’s eyes flutter shut. Brendon pauses at the sight of Ryan’s face-- relaxed, jaw loose-- but continues to use the brush, changing colors between the red and a small tube of orange and one of a dry yellow too until Ryan wears a shimmering mask of fiery hues. It only takes minutes for it to dry and he moves on with a washable Crayola marker (fine tipped; may not be make-up but it works, so) and uses it to draw little leaves down the slope of his cheeks. Finally, he takes one of Ryan’s eyeliner pencils, and draws little dots looping from the leaves, making them look like they’re falling down from behind Ryan’s fringe.

“Scoot over.” Ryan says, only slightly impatient. Brendon wiggles to the side so that Ryan can see his reflection, all warm colors and precise lines. “Wow.” He turns his head from left to right, watches how the light gleams over the metallic coat. “Let me do yours, B?”

Brendon hadn’t planned on it, but he can’t exactly refuse Ryan touching his face, so they switch spots. Ryan holds Brendon’s head steady as he dabs yellow to his eyelids, smears pale orange around the edges and rubs with his finger until the colors blend, and then lines his eyes with black. It’s much less extravagant, he notices as he examines himself when Ryan slides off the counter, autumn shade and lonely branches, but it’s beautiful in the way that Ryan Ross does most things.

And if it gets smudged only an hour later, with palms winding up flushed cheeks and finding spots in disheveled hair, staining hands red and orange and black; foggy breathing and ragged gasps, that’s okay. They have forever to make up for it.

\---

The thought of school is okay, but it’s made ten times better by the fact that Ryan will be waiting by the fence when Brendon comes home.

\---

“What are you going to do after high school?” Ryan asks, and Brendon lifts himself up on his elbows.

“I don’t know. Apply for colleges nearby, I guess. I don’t really want to move out of the state. Maybe I’ll take a year off. Work some jobs.” He pauses, lets a hopeful smile break through. “Someone has to help you water the plants and find you a baobab.” 

“Good.” Ryan links their fingers. “Because I’m not leaving.”

\---

Brendon concludes that Ryan is a whole separate season. There’s no way that he holds elements of icy winter chills and warm summer rains; no-- it’s winter that carries his soft touch and heavy passion, summer that bears evidence of his warm smiles and breezy laughs.

“Let’s make our own calendar.” He whispers impulsively in Ryan’s ear. “Bring plants up to your room during the winter and turn the sled into a herb garden next July. Fill up that string above your desk with snapshots of every month and buy photo albums and fill those up too. Plant your fruit orchards and weird shaped cacti and every type of plant we can find and make sure we keep it, forever.”

Ryan smiles and nudges his nose into the crook of his neck. “I thought we were doing that already.”

Brendon laughs, giddy and overwhelmingly happy. “Yes, well. Now it’s official.”

The rocking ferns and bursting vines shield their tangled bodies, protecting them like a leafy sky as they share promises in the green shade.

 _End_.


End file.
